Find Me
by SisAngel
Summary: "A mugging, he scoffed. What a dull, pedestrian way to die." Established S/J


**This fic was initially inspired by two beautiful pieces of fanart I found on DeviantART, and later, further inspired by a third. I couldn't figure out how to post the links here so I put them in my profile ;D**

**Thanks to my dear friend Jenn1984 for a brit-pick of the first draft of this and both her and my dear friend Kiwi for looking it over and giving their opinions. Neither of these wonderful ladies properly beta'd this so all mistakes are my own.**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing, not even the fan art :P**

* * *

His cheek was throbbing where he had been punched. He should have seen the attack coming, but had been too preoccupied by texting Lestrade about their latest case to notice the man sneak up behind him. It wasn't something he did often, his powers of observation spreading to all his senses, not just sight, but he hadn't registered the sound of foot falls behind him until it was too late. He had fought, of course, but fists were no match for a switchblade.

A mugging, he scoffed. What a dull, pedestrian way to die.

He was growing very tired and very cold, and deep down he knew this was not good. Where was John? Was he looking for him? For some odd reason, the thought of dying alone sent a chill through his veins and caused dread to settle in his chest. He had never minded being alone before, had even understood accepted the fact that he would one day die and the probability that he would be alone when it happened. But since meeting John, it was as if he had become spoiled by the doctor's companionship. The thought of his last moments on Earth being spent alone scared him, but the idea of not having John sharing the air of his last breath was something more unbearable than simple fear. It was also longing, loneliness, and an array of other things he was only just learning to identify. John had taught him to feel these things. The doctor was his heart, the reason he had learned to care about anything at all, himself included. Without John, nothing mattered. Without John, everything was cold, bitter and colorless. And for his last moments to be so grey and icy sent a stab of painful desperation through his chest that rivaled his actual knife wound.

"Look at me…" he whispered into the night, to a man who couldn't hear him. "What h-have you...done to me...John?" Warm tears rolled down Sherlock's face and he squeezed his eyes shut against them. With shaking hands he clutched at the wound harder, trying to keep himself alive long enough to see his friend, his love, his John, one last time. "Find me…please…"

"Sherlock!"

His eyes snapped open at the familiar voice and he scanned the alley, but there was no sign of John. Was his oxygen-deprived mind playing tricks on him? Was this dying? The voice had sounded distant, but maybe, just maybe-

"Sherlock!"

There, it was getting closer. Perhaps a quarter of a block away. He was looking for him. John was there, so close yet so far away. Sherlock cursed himself as this thought pulled a desperate whimper from his throat. All he wanted was to curl up in John's arms, to go to sleep with the doctor stroking his curls lovingly.

"Sherlock, where are you?" John said to himself, but loud enough that Sherlock heard the anxiety and desperation in his voice.

As the sound of John's footsteps neared the entrance of the alley, Sherlock struggled to take in a deep enough breath to project his voice, but only ended up sending himself into a coughing fit.

"Sherlock?" John called, shining a torch down the alley.

Excellent. It hadn't gone as planned, but at least he'd gotten his attention.

"J-John," Sherlock choked, barely audible, and coughed again. He grimaced at the copper taste in his mouth.

"Sherlock?" The steps grew closer quickly until Sherlock had to squint as the beam from the torch shone in his face.

Behind the beam he could barely make out John's silhouette among the shadows cast by the street light and felt himself relax slightly, lips quirking up in a small, weak smile. John was here. He'd found him. He wasn't alone anymore.

"Sherlock!" John cried, and it was but a second before Sherlock felt warm hands covering his own freezing fingers. "Oh God, Sherlock..."

The torch forgotten on the ground, shining a beam on the wall the consulting detective was leaning against, John removed Sherlock's icy hands and pressed something into the wound. How did John get his scarf off so fast? Everything was getting blurry, moments were blending together, but that was okay, he could go to sleep now because John was here, he would take care of him.

"…found me..." Sherlock sighed, struggling to focus on John's face as his vision swam. John looked terrified as he stared down at him.

"What?"

"You...found me..."

John pulled his phone from his pocket and dialed with one hand, holding the scarf with the other. "Angelo called, said you hadn't showed to pick up our order. Can't you go one bloody day without getting yourself into trouble?" John said in an attempt to tease, but his voice wavered and betrayed his fear.

"Sorry," Sherlock sighed as the darkness around his vision began to move in.

"Keep your eyes open!" John shouted and Sherlock jerked back to attention, staring up at the blonde with wide eyes. "Don't go to sleep, Sherlock, please."

Wasn't he just on the phone? Had he already made the call? How long were his eyes closed? Wait…were those tears in John's eyes?

"Tell me what happened, Sherlock. Talk to me, tell me everything you remember."

"Male, my h-height...ginger…knife…" he struggled as pain shot through his torso. "Mugged…" His eyes were slipping closed again.

John cursed under his breath. "Stay with me, Sherlock, please."

Tears were streaming down both their faces now. Sluggishly, Sherlock shook his head. "…found me…won't die 'lone now…"

"Don't talk like that," John snapped, voice breaking. "You're going to be fine, all right? Damn it, where is that ambulance?"

Sherlock sighed sadly, still staring at John with unfocused eyes. "Thank you."

"What? For what?"

"Everything. For being...everything to me."

"Sherlock, stop it. Stop it right now," he ordered fiercely, on the verge of breaking down. "You are not dying, you hear me? No last minute confessions."

Sherlock wheezed out a small laugh-turned-cough. "You 'ready know...love you, wha's left to 'fess?" He hated how weak and slurred his speech was becoming, but found that he couldn't muster enough energy to articulate. He just wanted to curl up in John's arms and go to sleep.

John smiled weakly. "I love you too, Sherlock," he whispered, pressing a kiss just above the scratch on Sherlock's cheekbone.

The detective sighed contentedly as he leaned more into John, his lover wrapping an arm around his shoulders while keeping the pressure steady. What a very talented doctor, he thought with a smile, able to give comfort and heal at the same time. He'd have to tell him this when it was easier to form coherent sentences.

"Sherlock?"

"Tired," he mumbled.

"I know. I know you're tired, Sherlock, but I need you to stay awake for me, all right?" John coaxed, nearly crying in relief when he heard the sirens coming up the street. "Sherlock? Sherlock!"

Sherlock jerked awake with a gasp and glared up at John. "I'm sleeping."

"No, no sleeping yet. Just a few more minutes, okay?"

"Fine," he huffed, but finally in John's warm arms, Sherlock felt a wave of immense comfort wash over him and he couldn't keep his eyes from slipping closed.

* * *

"Damn it, Sherlock, what did I just say?" John snapped, shaking the other man. But Sherlock didn't reply. "Sherlock?"

Swallowing his panic, John touched Sherlock's pulse point and felt a sob forming in his throat when he found nothing there.

"Oh God no...no no no..." he sobbed, tears blurring his vision. He carefully laid Sherlock on his back and tilted his head, the sound of footsteps running toward them barely registering as he pressed his lips to his lover's and breathed for him, sitting up quickly to begin chest compressions.

"I'm a doctor!" he snapped at the medics as they tried to pull him away. He didn't give them a chance to react before barking out orders, taking charge of the situation as if he were back in Afghanistan, attempting to save a soldier's life.

"Come on, Sherlock," he whispered, not caring that strangers could see he had tears streaming down his face. "Don't do this to me. Don't...don't leave me again...please..."

* * *

John jerked awake to a booming clap of thunder, sitting straight up in his chair. One lonely light lit the room enough to see the white walls, the machines, and the thin form that lay in the large bed, beneath a pale blue blanket that was dark compared to the eyes that had yet to open. John sighed, his relief suddenly eclipsed by sorrow. It had been over a day since he'd found Sherlock bleeding to death in an alley. Thirty hours since he had technically died in John's arms. John squeezed Sherlock's hand, the one he had barely released in the last thirty hours, running his fingers over his pulse point. Lightning flashed through the thin curtains, bathing the dark room in blinding blue light for less than a second as rain pelted the window, thunder rumbling again soon after. The heart monitor beeped in sync with the thump under his fingers and John found himself entranced by the beauty of the steady rhythm.

His eyes moved from the monitor to Sherlock's peaceful face. Reaching up, he brushed the inky black curls from his eyes, running his fingers along those defined cheekbones, brushing against the nasal oxygen cannula. John didn't care that he was softly crying once again.

After Sherlock had faked his death, John had come to realize - a bit too late it had seemed - just how much this madman meant to him. Following his return, John had wasted little time telling Sherlock exactly how he felt. Luckily, his confession had been met with a pair of full lips upon his own. Countless kisses, touches and sighs later, John had found himself warm and comfortable with his limbs tangled in Sherlock's. And that was when he'd heard it the first time. He'd felt Sherlock's breath, warm and damp on his neck, as those three words were whispered into the peaceful silence of Sherlock's bedroom.

Oh, what he would give to hear those words once more.

"Sherlock," John whispered into the stillness of the hospital room. "Wake up." He squeezed the limp hand in his own, bowing his head and resting it in the palm of the other, covering his eyes as he cried. "Please..."

There was a twitch, so light he didn't notice, and then fingers slowly, weakly curled around his own. John looked up, afraid to hope until he saw eyes the shade of the winter sky fluttering open, immediately taking in his surroundings.

"Sherlock?" John asks hesitantly.

Sherlock turned his head toward him, brow scrunched in confusion. "John," he sighed, relaxing. His voice was so low and thick with sleep it sent a warm shiver down John's spine. "How long?"

"Just over a day," John replied, knowing exactly what he wanted to know. "They repaired the damage rather easily, it was the blood loss that was the problem. You're rather lucky, expected to make a full recovery."

"Thanks to you," Sherlock smiled at him, the warm, genuine smile he reserved for John and John only. "You should go home-"

"No." John cut him off and Sherlock looked at him curiously, waiting for him to continue. John sighed, looking away briefly before locking eyes with his lover. "You died. For about two minutes you were dead in my arms," he whispered weakly, reaching up to brush back Sherlock's hair lovingly. "I thought I'd lost you again. I can't...I won't leave you."

Sherlock's lips twitched up as he leaned into the touch. "I was rather hoping you'd stay," he admitted softly. "Being alone...doesn't quite appeal to me as it once did."

John smiled and stood, leaning over to press a gentle kiss to Sherlock's cheekbone. "Good, because I wasn't planning on leaving anytime soon."

Sherlock's eyes began to droop tiredly as he smiled up at his boyfriend. "Sleep with me."

"Sherlock, you're injured," John said with a teasing grin.

Sherlock simply rolled his eyes and attempted to scoot over, only succeeding in causing himself much pain. He gasped, holding his stomach as he waited for the burning to pass.

"Sherlock, stop that, you're going to pull your stitches," John chided, helping him settle.

"Yes, Doctor," the detective replied sarcastically. "Now lie down. You'll be of no use to me in my recovery if you're stuck in bed with your back thrown out because of that dreadful chair."

John sighed. "We could get into trouble for this, you know." Hesitantly, he laid down beside Sherlock and took his hand. "I could get kicked out of here."

"Nonsense," said Sherlock. "You're my husband, they can't make you leave unless I tell you to." He gave John a quick glance, checking his reaction, and smiled at the surprised look on the doctor's face, squeezing his fingers. "That is, if you would like to be."

"Sherlock, are you...did you just propose to me?" John asked, looking dumbfounded, excitement flashing in his eyes like it did during a chase.

"Take as long as you like to think it over," he said as he closed his eyes and laid his head on John's shoulder.

John stared in shock and awe at the mess of black curls resting below his chin before finally relaxing into the pillow.

"Yes."

Sherlock tilted his head up to meet John's eyes. "Yes? You're not going to think about it?"

"I love you, Sherlock," said John, smiling at the bewildered look on his lover's face. "I don't have to think about it."

Sherlock grinned and laid his head back on his shoulder, snuggling his face into the soft cardigan John was wearing. "I love you, John," Sherlock whispered.

John watched as Sherlock's breathing evened out, running his fingers over the pulse point on his pale wrist. Soon, the steady rhythm lulled him into a peaceful sleep beside his fiancé.


End file.
